


A Sense of Home

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mystrade fluff, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:36:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> The world is a very busy place. Our bodies work and work, attempting to keep up with the constant sensory input. Greg knew this, and knew how necessary each sense was to observe the ever changing environment around him. He loved to look, to see raindrops as they pebbled on glass and slid off umbrellas. He loved to touch, fingertips dancing across the warm skin of his lover, to feel the heat of a warm mug as it soaked into his palms. He loved to listen, the strains of Vivaldi’s Fall as it floated from the cracked studio door, the sound of the wind as it rippled through the tall pines in the park. He loved to taste, the slight icy pinprick of a fluffy snowflake landing on his tongue, the crisp bite of a sour slice of lemon.</i>
  <br/>
  <i> And Gregory loved to smell. His mind worked best with scents, the warm yeast of a bakery early in the morning. The smell of fresh roses along his path, the mellow tang of amber honey as it spilled onto his morning toast. But Mycroft’s, as strange as it sounded, was Greg’s favourite scent. It was mercurial, unpredictable in pattern, never the same two days in a row.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sense of Home

The world is a very busy place. Our bodies work and work, attempting to keep up with the constant sensory input. Greg knew this, and knew how necessary each sense was to observe the ever changing environment around him. He loved to look, to see raindrops as they pebbled on glass and slid off umbrellas. He loved to touch, fingertips dancing across the warm skin of his lover, to feel the heat of a warm mug as it soaked into his palms. He loved to listen, the strains of Vivaldi’s Fall as it floated from the cracked studio door, the sound of the wind as it rippled through the tall pines in the park. He loved to taste, the slight icy pinprick of a fluffy snowflake landing on his tongue, the crisp bite of a sour slice of lemon.  
And Gregory loved to smell. His mind worked best with scents, the warm yeast of a bakery early in the morning. The smell of fresh roses along his path, the mellow tang of amber honey as it spilled onto his morning toast. But Mycroft’s, as strange as it sounded, was Greg’s favourite scent. It was mercurial, unpredictable in pattern, never the same two days in a row. 

 

When he had been home all day, working in his study, he smelled of ink and parchment, with soft hints of the smoke from the fireplace. Occasionally, when it had rained, he would come to collect Greg from the station, and he would smell of wet wool and the buttery leather of the car interior. They’d drive home, strip their damp coverings off and curl into bed together. The smell of freshly brewed Earl Grey would enter the mix, both from the steam rising from their mugs and Mycroft’s warm breath as he huffed a kiss against Greg’s collar, slowly moving down his body. 

Sometimes, Mycroft would come home and he wouldn’t talk, just curl into Greg. Those days, Greg would hold him and just breath, the neutral tones of office air mixing with the light, acrid notes of stress, fear, or sometimes, guilt. But the scent would fade quickly as Greg rocked him on the couch. Mycroft would begin to talk, asking Greg questions about his day. They would move into the kitchen, and pull ingredients out for dinner. If it had been a particularly rough day, hints of vanilla and hazelnut would fill the air as the men prepared dessert. Despite the fact that those days were Mycroft’s worst, they were Greg’s favourite. The scent of vanilla would follow them to bed, and Greg could nose around following the smell, nipping marks into Mycroft’s skin. He could wake up the next morning, Mycroft smelling of fresh sheets and his own deep musky wooden scent, mingled with faint glimmers of leftover sugar. He would scoff as Greg dipped under his arm, nuzzling into the hollows of his body. Mycroft would tease lightly, saying that Greg was no better than a dog, and probably shed just as much, and Greg would ignore him, more inclined to spend his time categorizing the differences from the day before. 

Sometimes Mycroft would be finished with his day early and he would come to the Yard, bringing the rich scent of garlic and soy in a plastic takeaway bag from Greg’s favourite Thai place. He’d pull the knot of the bag and open the containers, releasing a fresh waft of the delicious scent into the air of Greg’s office, pushing aside the stale coffee that lingered no matter what tricks Greg tried. They’d sit and eat together, cheap wooden chopsticks dueling for dominance over the pork buns. Greg would laugh as Mycroft read his reports upside down, deducing what he could before Greg pulled the papers away and made him guess at the outcome of the cases. 

Greg did not like the way Mycroft smelled when he returned from one of the fancy dinner parties he was required to go too. Mycroft still smelled good, like rich port wine and cigar smoke, but the smell wasn’t his Mycroft. It was some other man, a rich politician who cared more for his pockets than his people, the man Mycroft had to pretend to be, aloof and snobbish. Mycroft was caring and involved, not distant, not disapproving. He was home and hearth, the protector for people who had no idea he was anything more than a whisper in the wind. The man who could sit at the piano for hours and play music just to calm Greg after a particularly bad case. The man who loved to lay on the couch, head in Greg’s lap as Greg played with his hair. It couldn't contain the man who had sat frozen in shock when he got the news that one of his agents had died during a mission, or the man who sobbed with joy when he got the phone call that another agent had been officially retired from fieldwork, because she had just given birth to a healthy baby boy. The entire world thought that Mycroft Holmes was cold, heartless, untouchable. Greg knew better. 

Greg knew better because he saw the sides that no one else did. He was the one Mycroft chose to spend time with. To stay with, share his life with even when it became demanding and hectic, sucking the energy from his very marrow.  
Sometimes Greg would come home to find Mycroft nearly asleep in the bath, lavender scented steam rising off the water. He would chuckle as Myc blinked sleepily up at him, greeting him softly, and would hold out a large fluffy towel for his husband. He’d towel him off, then wrap Mycroft up, and hold him tight as the tub emptied, breathing the mingling scents of apricot body scrub and lavender oils that had settled into his skin. 

Those nights Mycroft was childlike in his complacency, allowing himself to be led to bed and tucked in. Those were the nights Greg tugged his pyjamas on for him, because where he had returned from had been so draining that the man could hardly stand. The nights Greg would spoon up behind him and drape an arm over his side, stroke his belly until he fell asleep. The nights they’d stay cradled together, never moving from the others side. 

Mycroft would always wake before Greg the next morning, and would be waiting with breakfast and a light blush for tenderness of the night before. Greg would smile and accept his coffee, and they would go on. Mycroft didn’t need to vocalize his appreciation, because it was a simple fact and Greg knew. He knew by the way that Mycroft held him at night, by the way he smiled at him over coffee, over paperwork. He knew by the way that Mycroft bared himself to him, dropping the walls and masks everyone else was treated to. The way he looked when he glanced away from his books and journals to see Greg sitting on the couch, and his face would soften. How sometimes, Greg would wake to sunlight streaming in the window, Mycroft’s eyes fixed on him, filled with wonder and adoration of the kind you only read about in old dusty tomes. 

Most of all, Greg knew because when he smiled up at his love, Mycroft would smile back, three simple words spilling from his lips.

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> Thanks toward all those who helped me tidy this up and encouraged me.  
> Also, this fic was inspired by Mydwynter's tea blend, _Mycroft's Mahogany_ available on Adagio Teas.


End file.
